A period of a specified kind of weather.

Preface.

This is a preface to the following list of partial response-thoughts to the constant asking with which pieces of life keep harassing me today, the long day that promises to never end no matter how many times I repeat the steps to create order.

routine, ritual, plan, sacrosanct, inoperable, a bully, a thief, a dream

make the bed
shut the door
find my keys
park the car
swallow my food
pat the cats
watch the fire
pretend we connect
go deeper than I did before
say I’m feeling fine
shake out another load of laundry and wonder about the metaphor
tap my fingertips all over the keyboard
lie on my face and wish to wait in a more Seussian way

it is that open-the-fridge-again thing, but not a hungry feeling

Just doing it without worrying about perfect sounds like a great plan but doesn’t solve the problem of the mind that is blank apart from the refrain fuck the motherfucker, he’s a motherfucking fucker looping insistently.

(Thank you, Mr. Minchin, for your rhizomatic sensibilities.

. . . .)

List.

1. I am supposed to be writing, in part, about time, or anachronistic space. But Time is wiping out space, and perhaps it is revelatory, as in The Last Battle, an unseeable giant eating constellations as he goes tramping across the distance looking for his mother. A mixed-up memory where everyone goes through the door, further up and further in. Away from the portly sun, a wine-dark memory at the bottom of a forest pond, yet another ended world.

2. Yes, it is an emergency.

3. I was not looking for an answer about utopia. But I didn’t expect to find a yearful of glee and convulsive excavation to lead to an ashy conclusion that this is as close as we get, and we are missing it. Deer cull? UR DOING IT WRONG.

4. “We” is used here leerily and does not occur in my essays.

5. Earlier it rained and was sunny and I nearly went out to see if I could find a rainbow but since I woke up crying again today I did not because you never know when it’s going to start up all over again and there are random people on the street and meanwhile I am like hi if I taught your first yoga class then I am “your truth,” namaste, hate to break it to you babe.

6. Help is not so easy to ask for. The websites all act like it is, but it is not. Witness: Hey! How are you???!!! How about coming over to pick me up at 8 AM tomorrow and sitting in the waiting room with me for an indefinite while so I can get a referral to see my medical practitioner who specializes in diagnosing and treating my mental illness? Maybe there is a magazine you will enjoy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

7. “Yesterday” I thought, EASY. I WILL SIMPLY MAKE A PLAN FOR EVERY DAY. Goal: to write one thousand words a day, and they don’t have to be good!

8. “Today” I am one thousand words behind, unless angry, birds, level, 2-21, and solution count.

9.

10. But what about the blank?

11. My face seems to be tilting too far forward in an increasingly annoying way.

12. Offers of help worsen the squirm and make me want to call the police.

13. Offerings on the other hand can be safely left outside my study door and will be consumed routinely between the dark side of 11 and 3 and shared with the bats in my belfry.

14. Please excuse me now, I am going to look for some bells to ring.

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About owl

Disordered, reckless, persevering.
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5 Responses to A period of a specified kind of weather.

  1. michael says:

    You write in a magnificently mysterious and wonderful and wistful way. (Is that too many adjectives for one sentence? I even had to look up wistful to make sure I still knew the meaning of it, and hey! Look! I re-learned a whole word anew that I already knew!)

    Sometimes people write things and the reader kind of wishes they knew the writer and met up with them every day to talk about the everything-nothings of life, and that’s the way I kind of feel now. (Or perhaps it’s the Adam Cohen in my ears and the emptiness in my post-study brain that feels like what I imagine an oxygen stupor must feel like. But then again, how would I even begin to know that? But then again I do breathe abnormally quickly at times. But then again everyone does…)

    Anyway. Great piece of writing! I think my comment might be unnecessarily longer than your post, but thanks for sparking my half-dead heart and two-twenty-fifths-functional brain for a moment. It’s not something that happens as often as it used to!

    • owl says:

      Thank you very much for the long and wonderful comment (also a poem!). On adjectives: too many well chosen can be better than just the right polite number, because they construct the internal rhythm of line, and that is a force better felt than thought sometimes. I shall have to look up Adam Cohen now to see if I might experience this feeling you describe.

    • owl says:

      Oh, That Cohen. How has this escaped me?

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