Wednesday, July 4, 2018
Hillbilly randomness. You can see it in the arrangement of things. Hillbilly landscaping, for instance. There is no discernible plan. Shit just goes in the ground. Furnishings. A piece here, a piece there. Colors, patterns? Mix in match, baby. A 65" t.v. in a small room. Meals? Whatever is at hand. My mother is back to cooking again which should be a good thing. Whatever is at hand. No rhyme. No reason. Two nights ago I had a turkey burger and some boiled cabbage. Table water.
It's O.K. It is a heritage.
Last night, my mother put on some analgesic rub all over her body before she made dinner. The whole house smelled strongly of liniment. There is nothing like the odor of mentholatum and an overcooked pork chop with green beans boiled into mush. Table water.
Why are there always little bits of paper towels or tissue lying in little wads around the house?
Q corrected me yesterday. "It’s 'gradually, then suddenly' not 'slowly, then quickly,'" he said. I knew he couldn't stop writing forever any more than I can.
Another friend wrote, "The only thing worse than having a girl, is no girl."
Not really. I'm in a bad place. Sleep is no peace. Mal a la tete.
My friend wrote that he hasn't had alcohol in nine days, doesn't watch the news, goes to bed at nine and walks five miles every morning. Not drinking is good for a while, I wrote back. It brings clarity. But after awhile, clarity reminds you why you were drinking in the first place. There is no winning with it. But I will return to the alcohol free zone for a while and see if I can lose another five pounds. It has become a mania since I went to the doctor. Jesus, I should never have gone. All I see are the levels on my lab report. Every moment, I wonder where they are. Glucose? Sodium? LDL cholesterol? Blood pressure? Fuck me, I'm not kidding.
Levels. I wish I could draw cartoons. I want the back of a guy's head who is sitting in front of a graph of blood and urine lab results, slump shouldered, anxious.
Many people, I hear, enjoy the Cracker Barrel. It is not difficult to imagine why hillbillies are so in love with shooting one another.
Hard times make hard people.
This old Polaroid was in a box of pictures, disintegrating. I had to scan it to save it. Grandparents on the hillbilly side. They are dressed up. Christmas day, I presume.
Posted by cafe selavy at 9:11 AM
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