18 May 2006
Not writing anything, not doing anything, enjoying nothing, creating nada leaves me indoors on a rainy thunderstorm night all melancholy even in the arms of my honey and my baby, even writing the beginning of some short story of raunchy proportions and I have little hope. Just letting my life pour over me like this rain that pours down, just letting it all build up around me in giant piles of heaping shit. Did the dishes and now I’m listening to the Cowboy Junkies’ version of Sweet Jane over and over on repeat the drone of it so comforting so constant like the constant drone of boredom of depression of loneliness of the big gaping hole in my heart and no, Randy, my new love, even you can’t fill it within me, for me, but you can fill my time so I ignore the blackness within me. Yes, time, take away my time with your sex, your incredible body, the orgasms you give me, your smell and sweat, your embrace, your promises…take away my time with your promise of tomorrow, of forever…I’m not using my time for anything else anyway. And I guess this is my fear, using up my time on nothing much. Or not using my time on what’s important. I don’t want my time to slip away, yet I fully realize that I have so much of it, that life is just so much time…there will be more thunderstorms to appreciate from our hammock on the porch, I will write more poems, and there will always be chores around the house to do, hell there will always be the time to build a house, and a family. But things recorded evade time. My thoughts evade time, therefore I exist. Sometimes I forget. Like I forget how much calmer I feel when I have a clean kitchen! I’m working on the piles of shit. It’s not as chaotic now although I still can’t see my kitchen table. But I can see my sink and countertops. One step at a time. Humankind progresses in small, small steps in time. Infinitesimal steps across the surface of time.