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Saturday, Apr. 23, 2005 / 11:59 a.m. ~Now Could Be a Good Time~ I've changed the time for this, I've paused the Winamp player, this is total concentration, this. I'm cheating, it's ten minutes on, I've gone back, this is a do-over. Just to make a point, just to note some thoughts, but there are few. I was standing in the bathroom, filing my nails, thinking I'll leave the burned out bulb in the overhead by the bathtub until after I've had my bath, that it will be nice to take a bath in semi-darkness, feeling like it can't have been that long ago I changed it, I must remember standing on the edge of the tub, unscrewing the screws that hold that opaque white glass cover in place, but it could have been months ago, there is no concept of time anymore. And then I think, I could cry, I could cry now, should I?, wondering, thinking this is a hard time right now, this could be a time when even strong people might decide it's a good time to cry, they might plan it, make arrangements to be alone, to stand filing their nails and decide this it when they look at the time on the little clock there on the counter, the one with the black cats on the purple background, the little Paul Frank (Paul Frank is your friend) clock. But I don't cry. It's a toss-up. It's 'Everything is going to be fine', vs. 'Oh my god, I am so unprepared, what am I going to do?', and maybe I could even add into the mix a 'Hey, I can't wait to find out where I'll be in a month, maybe two, what about a year?'. G.'s solidly under the bed. She lives there. And when I wake from sleeping I hoist myself overboard, lift up the bedskirt and look to see if she's alive. She's always right there looking back at me with those beautiful green eyes and I want to shake sense into her, tell her to snap out of it, that the doctor says she should be fine, therefore she must be fine, but I only yank at her ever so gingerly to force fluids, to force food, in syringes and needles and under the skin and into her mouth and she likes to be fed with the syringe, as it turns out. But it sounds like thunder, and I know the sky is clear. Which could be a valid analogy for all of it. And maybe that is what my online astrologer was trying to tell me. I can't even sink into a deep dark place to find pretty words and philosophical thoughts, it's not even worth all of that. I just need to take a bath and change a lightbulb after all. And I vacuumed, so what could feel better than clean carpet under bare feet, or orgasms had under pressure, or reading endlessly on a video display terminal and never wanting to find the end of the Interweb? It's quiet now, but there was music before, it was a reggae version of the James Bond theme, a ska version actually, and now the sound of the blower on the PC tower, that's it, and my fingers on the keyboard, it's quiet, even the Interweb sleeps while everyone is away, Saturday away. I looked over at the bookcase just then, and the title that jumped out at me was 'Let's Get Well'. It's for cancer survivors, as I recall, but it's too dusty to pull off the shelf, I'd upset the balance. I washed dishes last night, and I have perfectly cleared counters now, inspiring me to cook, and as I reached for a pan to heat up some frozen hash browns I remembered loving cooking. It was an instantaneous sudden flash of all my cooking experiences sort of flooding my brain like a near death experience, my life flashing before my eyes in a series of casseroles and stir fries, roast chickens and potato salads, and those spring rolls that time, and the tortellini I made from scratch, and that snowballs into wanting back the life I once had, and then I'm missing being alive again and I remember that I died a long time ago, and then I remember next week, and then I'm standing there filing my nails, looking at that darkened burned out lightbulb and thinking I could cry, like I thought I could have an orgasm earlier, I could cry, this is a good time, but I hold it in. Cost of the War in Iraq
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