Monday, September 04, 2006

Labour Day

The slowest day of the year where the least is accomplished must always be labour day. I don’t know why, but it does make sense to me somehow. Things feel ended at this time. As though I have done as much as I can and now, fuck it. Why bother anymore. The pieces seem to fall into place and of course it being fall, there is a sense of beginning. There is a natural systolic twist that closes rather than opens and a crispness begins to drive us towards different achievements than the earlier seasons. I don’t know what that means for me and my shiny tangerine, but one thing is certain: I can’t keep doing this. I need something more.

The last time this happened I was recalling one of the better class asthma attacks I’ve had and a late night emergency room drama. The year before I actually was thrashing on the floor trying to breathe and so did not get to my more litterary observations until I got home and read over my notes from the hospital bed. These are days of nihilism, of wanting to do more and seeing others doing exactly that. These times are maladroit and I cannot help but hope I will soon again be in my element of blowing leaves and confidence. Who is this girl going in circles not knowing? She cannot be the person that I was. Where are my likely followers? Where are those who love me naturally from moment one? I left many as motherhood, even symbolic, does not suit me. And this leads to equal terms; indifference. This year if I’m not getting calls for help, I’m not getting calls. So I waved goodbye to one and only realized the other in the uncomfortable silence afterwards.

At work, I’ve done all that I can do. In leaving the drowning man at the bar despite his cries of “wait, I’ll be better…”, in pulling daddy’s sleeve to point at our nasty cousin, in all of this I have done all that I can do. It is in the hands of Simon to decide to get better and stop drinking. It is in the hands of Israel’s light to evict this poisoned man, it is in the hands of fate to point him in my direction and already I fear it may be too late. I move forward only in myself: I have not yet done all I can to heal and rise and grieve. This is the slowest motion, molasses and heavy jeans. I wrote once about a glutinous, sucking feeling that came when I tried to fix it the first time. It’s not quite the same today, but I’m still wearing iron shoes. Who is this exhausted girl who turns around and can’t decide? Where have I gone? And how is it already two years later where now I am the oldest in the room and the least complete? Who is this walking tornado losing elements, loving everything so much it gets sucked up and destroyed? Where did this whirlwind comefrom? For surely this unpredictable spinning column of violent air cannot be the person I was and am and are today.

Labour Day. I could say something about rebuilding. About being better and focusing and healing from this. I could discuss the searing opening, the vital and necessary act of rebirthing myself after being thrown down into this primordial mass grave. I just don’t feel it. I could discuss the union of myself and my memories and who I need to be and how in a collective these people deserve a voice but are they fighting themselves in my head or just my higher functions? All I know for sure is that this, the day that we lay down our hammers and clap each other on the shoulder is the day where the least is accomplished or reviewed. I am sitting this morning drinking coffee wondering who I am. And tomorrow I’ll go into work pretending and motioning sans-sure.

One day I will know. But today is Labour Day. 20 days before the anniversary of my birth. On this day more than any other, I am guaranteed to know the least and to question any surety I may have gathered this year. Turn over your baskets and drop the aprons to the floor. Dance if you want to but it’s cold and there’s no music. I won’t know until tomorrow where we are.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

when you say you need something more, are you speaking metaphorically or perhaps you are just in need a good sandwich?

Or is the sandwich a metaphor?