Sunday's Bruise

Originally Posted Monday, October 7, 2013

I did needed chores this weekend, but as always, they were not enough.  There is much, much more to be done just to stay afloat.  I don't like to do them, the chores.  I am like a child when it comes to practical things.  Most of my friends are as well.  We would much rather play than work.  We'd rather be creative than practical.  We'd rather eat and drink than fast.  We'd rather go see the world than go to church.  But the world bears down upon us, and we do what we must.  We suffer the human condition in a model way, being more talented at our jobs than we should be, succeeding in the proletarian life in spite of ourselves.  We have art and literature to succor us when it can, though it is not always enough.  We have made our marks which are more like the wet spot on the sheets that dry and stain.  We are no happier or less so, perhaps, than others though I would say we have been a little more lively.  We certainly mythologize our lives in colorful ways. 

But Sunday began like a bruise.  One friend had gone to the hospital, another to jail.  Both were released later in the day, but neither knows what the outcome will be.  It is startling when the laughter stops. 

Later that night, I made dinner for my mother.  Ritual.  I am reigning in a bit, making my world a little less expansive.  I have plenty to occupy me.  It is time to slow down--way, way down--and polish the woodwork.  Quietude. Work.