Make Love Not War

In some bizarre attempt to get inside my head, Poet Coworker came up to me this morning and was all like, "I know this isn't why you did it, but from someone who was sitting at home yesterday, thank you for doing what you did." I honestly thought she was talking about my moving all the boxes out of the offices while she sat at home fake sick. Then it became clear she was talking about the Chicago protests.

I told her I didn't do anything. I went to the rally, but I didn't march, since I had a strong feeling it would end in arrests which I just wasn't up for last night. Plus, I had a minor internal war I was fighting. I didn't tell her that last part.

"And besides," I concluded. "There was no where else for me to be yesterday at 5 pm. That was the only place I should be."

I was so irked by her lame attempts to make conversation and connect and her desperation in trying to show how much she cares and is invested in me or the issue or whatever. Save it for the White House comment line. (202-456-1111 Call and tell them you don't support the war and as a registered voter you'll be working hard to put him out of office.)

Everybody's got their breaking point, kid.

This has been a hard week. It didn't start off that way, although I think my memory is rewriting itself because as soon as I say that I think about how unbearable Monday felt.

One of the things I've liked about myself lately is I've been so present-living. I haven't spent my waking hours counting down to sleeping hours, or my days counting down to weekends or end of months or whatever. I very rarely have said "if I can just make it to ______, I'll be okay." Consequently time has been slipping through my fingers at an exponentially high rate. Yesterday it came to a screeching halt.

My brain felt like the old stationary bike in the basement of my house growing, the one we inherited from my grandfather when he died, and one of the first times I got off of it with my not-so-big eight-year-old self, I scraped the entire length of my thigh against a pedal and had a huge purple scaly bruise for weeks that started near my knee and creeped dangerously close to my groin. Later when I would ride it in the basement while reading back issues of my mom's copies of Redbook (especially the articles on Loni Anderson and Burt Reynolds, my favorite Hollywood couple at the time [yes, I'm a fag]), I would pedal faster and faster and then lift my legs up and time how long the wheel would turn on it's own. Sometimes I'd grease it up so it would spin longer.

Lately my physical pedaling has kept up with my brain turning, but yesterday I kicked the shit out of those pedals and it kept turning and turning and turning and I feared putting my feet back down and getting them tangled up, receiving another thigh-long bruise or other more serious injury.

This morning my heart ached in a way that any muscle does when it's been overexerted. It didn't hurt, it was just slightly sore and out of sorts. I had residual feelings of dread and anxiety and anticipation, but not too long after stepping outside and taking in the cool fresh air I was properly aired out.

And it helps that I have a sense of humor. I was left alone this morning because an early-morning massage appointment pulled her out of bed, even earlier than I usually arise. While sad to have her go, the one advantage was turning on bad music to help start my day. I considered a deathmatch mixtape, because while aggressive hiphop is a fabulous way for me to get energized, I know it's not everyone's cup of tea at 7:30 am. But instead I opted for the radio, and I can't even remember why I chose the lite rock station. I think I caught the end of a Sade song. I hopped in the shower but then realized I couldn't hear the music anyway, since I didn't want to turn the volume up enough to disturb the upstairs neighbors. I sung to myself instead.

I got out and towelled off and stepped out to get dressed. Some strange combination happened -- I was rubbing my eyes, losing my balance, getting my heel caught on the threshold -- and I realized my body was starting to fall. In a split second I had a decision to make: attempt to catch myself by contorting my legs and shoulder, possibly twisting something or hitting a chair in the process; or I could just bend my knees, go with the flow and let myself hit the ground. I went with the latter, since I wasn't falling at a very rapid speed. I'm sure from someone watching it maybe looked like I just decided to lie down spontaneously on the floor.

The cats eyed me suspiciously and I stayed down for an extra few seconds to make sure I'd still get up with at least part of my pride. Then I heard the music playing.

I’m all out of faith, this is how I feel. I’m cold and I'm ashamed, lying naked on the floor.

Fcking Natalie Imbruglia. Why must you taunt me so for lying naked on the floor? I promised I just slipped and I'm not having a melodramatic meltdown a la Illeanna Douglas by the side of the pool.

How could I not laugh?

(no subject)

I hate having to complete tedious work on deadline!!!!

75 minutes left and seven more pages to edit. Ugh. Better than the fourteen I had an hour ago.