Saturday, September 30, 2006

Why so empty?

We’ve all had days like this. The frozen days when you look ahead and see a myriad things that need to be done. You can’t bring yourself to do any of them. The coffee is empty, you can’t muster the will to make more. You should be doing things, being productive, arranging items. We would love on these days to meet our friends later and tell them what we did, how we achieved what there is to be achieved. What did you accomplish today? I was going to write something about Peter MacKay, but I have to tell you, after Belinda, I can’t bring myself to be interested in his personal life. Fuck it. He’s going to make a royal ass of himself and our country as the Minister of Foreign Relations, so he may as well stot around with the poster child for Bush’s occupation of the Fertile Cresent.

I was going to mention the plan to remove America from the middle east by George McGovern and William R. Polk in this month’s Harpers, but they did their own justice in writing it and don’t need my notes and kudos. I could bring up Patricia Beer, a poet I’ve never heard of that came to me while poking around a used bookstore after the tatoo convention on my birthday last week.

There is no finishing because there is no getting started. The whole range of my rage will fizzle and become a dour frustration and back to the office on Monday. There still isn’t anyone screaming about the softwouldn’t, there’s still no coverage of Darfur on the news. My digital recorder still isn’t working, and I don’t know how to install the ethernet driver onto my new computer.

The big question remains Why Bother? from that comes, How to start? And once learned, What is it that should be begun? Why are these times so empty? I remember passionate rage and indignation. I remember ruining events I disagree with. I remember conviction. There doesn’t seem to be anything now but vague irritation. I’ve lately become more of a “fuck it” than my former, “hey, FUCK YOU!”. Was sweet JP this apathetic? Is that how he came up with Existentialism? He probably didn’t have a large green iguana to distract him.

I think this might just be it. This tiny sad, mediocre life could well be as good as it gets. This could be the most I can ever do.

Clawing out of the drowning rage, kicking off the iron anchor of sadness and shame can take wild amounts of energy. There are days of surplus when other items gain my attention and become targets for the surplus. But no righteous indignation today. I’m not even going to make my bed.

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