Today is Thursday, Again

Finally, after 9 a.m., I am able to sit—however briefly—at my computer. I sit here attempting to write something other than my usual drivel. But nothing comes. Not even the drivel. I wish I could write a poem; sometimes, writing poetry helps wash away the broken glass scattered around inside my skull. Not this morning, though. I can hear the shards of glass slam into one another, creating ever-smaller slivers and tiny cubes the size of grains of sand but with edges sharper than scalpels.

During my brief attempt to write, or at least finish, poetry, I looked at my drafts folder and found eight poems…out of about 450 draft posts. I read all eight of them. Two of them seem very familiar and may be recent. I think I may have posted different versions of them here on my blog or on Facebook or read them for Wednesday Night Poetry, but I’m not sure. And not sufficiently motivated to take the time to look. Regardless, none of them could have been salvaged to fit my mood this morning. Said mood approximates a merger between Mary Poppins, Eeyore, Count Dracula, and Frankenstein’s Monster. There’s no particular reason for my odd sense of anger, anxiety, happiness, fear, innocence, and skepticism. I think I may have been infected with artificial intelligence; when I had the lobotomy, they extracted the intelligence and left the artificial.

Some emotions are wisp-thin at their fullest and invisible in their natural states. The problem with describing those emotions or demonstrating them is that they combine almost imperceptible movements of the facial muscles, nearly-invisible perspiration around the eyes and on the forehead, and a slight tightening of the skullcap, just enough to cause the hair to move just a “hair.” The best way to observe these emotions in the field is to watch close-up video images of television or film actors; when the actors respond to a surprise or a crisis or are caught in a lie, look at their faces. Watch that barely noticeable movements. Those are evidence of those wisp-thin emotions. What’s that you say? They are not emotions but, instead, visible expressions of some underlying emotion? Are you questioning me? Well, you may be right, I may be crazy, but it just might be a lunatic you’re looking for.

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See? Drivel. That’s one of the reasons I am no good in conversations. My mind sometimes works at the speed of a snail on downers. My fingers think much faster than my mind, but the fact that my fingers sometimes are drivel-driven contributes to the overabundance of drivel around these parts.  But I did have an idea a day or two ago for the plot of a novel. I hope someone writes it. I might write it myself, but I don’t recall the plot. I recall almost nothing about it, in fact. I may have told someone; if I told you, please let me know what I said.

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Okay. I’m back. It’s nearing ten o’clock now, that morning moment at which plans for the day should have been made, confirmed, and their execution begun. I’m running a little behind. I’m thinking of putting off until tomorrow the things I should do today. Making that conscious decision makes me more than complicit in the crime; it provides irrefutable evidence of my guilt. But I really should vacuum and dust and straighten up a bit because the housekeeper is coming tomorrow for her somewhat periodic now-and-again visit. I hope she enjoys working around a dog. No, I wouldn’t do that. I’ll take Bob in the car for a long, long drive. If I knew anyone nearby with a huge, dog-proof-fenced yard, I’d ask if I could impose by letting Bob run free. Then again, I might prefer to just keep Bob in the car, where he seems to be in ecstasy from the moment he jumps inside.

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Enough fun for now.