It’s time
Barely lucid.
Rarely functional.
Conjunction of dysfunction?
Myopic, biopic, obviously off topic.
Awake. That’s debatable.
Resurrection at 06:30.
5 more hours pass before my feet reach the floor.
Passing through that moment of ‘knowing sleep.’ Hearing the pigeons on the roof, unable to open my eyes. Back in focus, minutes have passed. The sun is up. Gone again. Eventually, I send a txt and start to spin up my brain, clarify the fog filling my eyes.
Blink. Swallow. Breathe.
I don’t want to get up but the pounding my head isn’t abating.
It’s time.
Red Bull injection. I almost feel human.
So much to do, but who gives a shit?
It will still be there tomorrow and the next day and the next.
Strip it down to the basics of life and existence.
At the very least I need to clean my apartment. I don’t like living in a trashed space which is what I have been doing for months and months. Taxes are done, now I need to bundle everything up and set it aside. Maybe now my headspace will clear a bit so that I can work on everything else.
Ankles hurt. My boots were too tight last night. That’s more a function of layering over the calves than over-tighting. My ankles want to roll in and I limp at the moment. Not enough blood flow, movement while on the bike, and low temps. Oh well. Such is the price I willing pay for my indulgence.
Approaching noon as I sit here in sweets and a t-shirt, typing this latest dribble.
It’s time.
Last night I was reflecting on my inaccessibility. I am very good at wearing my social armour. I can go for weeks without actually letting anyone see the real me and this last week was particularly unpleasant. Christine once commented that she could never tell if I was laughing at everyone inside my head, because I look with intensity but say very little until I feel comfortable. Then I talk about everything and… nothing. I know I do this with all of my relationships. In or out. What’s my mood? The meds help to even things out, reduce the extremes, but I am still the same guy. I still listen to metal and punk. I still associate with the music, the themes, rhythms, power chords and violence of 118 beats per minute. I miss my drums.
I need to buy another house. Soon! I can’t keep living in this shared space. I may have to, but I need my own 4 walls and space for motorcycles, drum kits, and computers.
But I digress.
Last night, I was sitting in a Denny’s in Chehalis, WA. It was early, only about 22:30. And the kids were out. I walk in half-leather clad, all in black, helmet and tank bag in hand. Everyone stares for a moment then returns to their own little worlds. I am seating 2 tables away from a pack of high school students. One is loud and obnoxious, pushy to his friends, mildly attentive to his girlfriend. The other 3 guys are huddled together, the one in the middle sports a shiny new cell phone, permanently attached to his ear, while all three + one remote, converse.
They grow up so fast these days. Don’t they? I expect the problems are the same, but the technology changes perceptions. There is no real way to shelter a child in our society beyond completely disconnecting from the ether and sequestering in some back water corner of Montana. Then again, the Unibomber could be living up around the next bend. That’s not life. Not a realistic preparation for the ways of the world. Yesterday was not better than today. It may have been simpler, but I don’t recall it ever being any easier
I have chosen a path such that I will never have a child. I know that now. The ex was the last real possibility of that happening and there was not a chance in hell that I would impregnate that crazy bitch. For a time, after the divorce, after my resurrection and reentry into life, that I wanted nothing less than that pleasure, that responsibility, that purpose. Those days have faded away. I had forgotten the topic for the most part until last night.
I have repeatedly woken up with my right Hand searching for Barney in the bed. He would usually curl up near the pillow to my right. Over the years, I even learned to avoid particular places in the bed. He had 3 or 4 spots. The one near my head was a favorite. I could roll over and there he would be, curled into a tight ball, with a pair of ears poking up. I would do the morning inhalation and those ears would twitch. In a few moments, he would uncurl, stretch, and start talking to me. Vocal lit’ bugger. I miss him, but it is a challenge to discuss the topic with anyone. I still get upset. His death was inevitable. His days were always number from the moment he returned to my world. And then he was done. No options, only prolonged suffering. He deserved better than that.
The vet’s office called on Friday while I was out driving during my lunch break. His ashes are ready for me to pick up. Wonderful. I need to go get them, but I don’t want to grate that wound any more than I have to at the moment. Maybe this coming week. This weekend is doubtful.
Maybe I should just starting killing something on my 360. I have Burnout Rampage and Gear of War. Destroy cars or alien bug thingies… At least I would stop thinking about everything…
It’s time.
