“In certain ways writing is a form of prayer.” ~ Denise Levertov

“The greater the sensibility and the more subtle the capacity to feel, the more absurdly one trembles and quivers at the small things.” ~ Fernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet (trans. M. Jull Costa)

Saturday afternoon. Sunny, air quality weather advisory due to Dismal Swamp fires.

Major meltdown yesterday as I was finishing my post. Tears . . . stuffy nose . . . more tears . . . throwing up for good measure . . . tears . . . Lovely image, no?

I don’t understand it, really. How do people who are normal get along in life without medication? Two days without my Cymbalta, and I’m a basket case. Maybe I wouldn’t have been as much of a basket case if things weren’t so shitty. Who knows.

Dreamed that I was on a bus that was careening out of control. That needs no interpretation. But different people tried to drive the bus, and at one point the bus was leaping through the air across the water—a la Speed—and all of the passengers, including myself, were rocking forward to try to get the bus to land on the shore on the other side. It was sort of like Mario Kart but not a video.

The bus ran into a pancake house, and at one point, it ran over several cars. I remember that in between all of the action, I took rat poison and rubbed it on the cheek of a woman who had been my friend but who had betrayed me. She did not die, but her husband did. What?

I also dreamed that I was selling Avon at Dillard’s, and another female friend from long ago was helping me. I couldn’t remember how to work the register, and ultimately, I lost customers who got tired of waiting.

At some point I dreamed that I was teaching in the public school again, but I had amnesia. I showed up at the school, but couldn’t remember what subject I was teaching, could not remember my locker combination, could not remember where the faculty lounge was. My co-teacher was no help as she also had amnesia, so we both were relying on the third teacher in our group, who hated both of us and laughed at us in front of the students because we couldn’t remember anything.


Note: Was never able to finish this post, and this was before she died on Monday.

The Remains

I empty myself of the names of others.
I empty my pockets, I empty my shoes and leave them beside
the road. At night I turn back the clocks; I open the family
album and look at myself as a boy.

What good does it do? The hours have done their job.
I say my own name. I say goodbye.
The words follow each other downwind.
I love my wife but send her away.

My parents rise out of their thrones
into the milky rooms of clouds. How can I sing?
Time tells me what I am. I change and I am the same.
I empty myself of my life and my life remains.

~ Mark Strand