This photo pretty much sums up my mental condition right now. See? You get it? Well, it seems awfully clear to me. The struggle of/for. . . you know. Life. Meaning. Not the meaning of life. The meaning of my life. Puny sub-heroic efforts against the Greater Force. Pointless. Futile.
I had one dream last night. All night. Just one. I'd wake and fall back to sleep and it would be the same dream. I had gone to see an old love. She was married and had child. Why had I gone? It was the first time I had met her husband. Awkward. It got late. I fell asleep in their bed. I woke up around two. They were still up, talking. Everything was in bright technicolor. Jesus, I should go home, I thought. No, that is what I said. I was alone with her. She asked me to stay. I woke up and went to the restroom, drank some water, went back to bed. Closed my eyes and I was right back in the dream.
The next day was Mother's Day. Is, actually. I was uncomfortable and confused. I couldn't stay in bed any longer. I got up at four.
Saturday got off to a bad start. I wanted a big breakfast. After struggling with the decision, I got dressed and went out. I drove to two different breakfast places. Each had long lines of people waiting to be seated. The riff-raff come to breakfast from far on weekends. My own hometown becomes a resort, a refuge from the bunny hutch apartment and inorganic neighborhoods that developers have drawn out and offered. Life needs texture, not parking lots and strip malls with out parcels. They stand in line. They act stupidly. They think they have won a trip to the moon with Buck Rogers. Their idiot kids crawl around over the filthy floors.
I came home and cut up a small red potato into thin slices. Onion, olive oil. When the potatoes were done, I plated them and threw three eggs into the pan, a hot dog into the microwave. Bun, onion, catsup, relish. It was a 97% fat free hot dog. I figured it was healthier than bacon by a smidge. I ate it all with a Dale's Pale Ale.
My phone dings. Texts from the drunkards crowd. How's everyone feeling. A few responses. Life is dull.
I went back to bed. After that, I never felt right. I got up and took a hot Epsom Salts bath. Showered. Went to the art supply store for things I never found. Went to a fabric store. Same result. I had a multimedia thing in mind. Stopped at the liquor store on my way to mother's. I did a little heavy work for her that busted me up a bit. Left her house and went to pick up fixings for Mother's Day dinner. Plus flowers and a card. Bought a Poke Bowl so I wouldn't need to cook. Ate on the deck in a light drizzle with a feral cat that was acting pissy to me for some reason.
Inside, I turn on t.v. I eat a gummy.
I've changed verb tenses in there. Probably more than once. Selavy. Why should I let grammar be the boss of me?
Driving through a crowded section of highway in Viet Town, I see the Lucky Dragon Massage Parlor. Huh. I make a note. I have cameras piled upon the dining room table. I want to take murky black and white photos of low life places. First, I need to establish a technique. How do I make the pictures look like what I imagine?
It probably doesn't matter. I will not be taking pictures at the Lucky Dragon.
Too often, I think about coming to in the street after being hit on my Vespa, unable to move, giving in to the knowledge that everything now was in the hands of others. That night in intensive care a beautiful nurse sat by my side for hours, or so it seemed. We talked, not of the accident or pain or death, but about her life. I asked her questions as if we were sharing a drink. She asked me if I needed more pain meds. She said that she would come to see me the next day.
I never saw her again, of course.
It is far from daylight. I thought to go back to bed with sunrise. This darkness is oppressing. A seemingly endless night.
We are made to strip and climb into the ring, puny, hopeless. How can one not believe we are here merely for the amusement of the gods?
I've woken. I am lying in the street. I need a nurse. Everything, it seems, is in the hands of others.